


Do No Harm

by NSAS_Jian, Ōmukade (NSAS_Jian)



Series: Reboot [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: A scosh of morbid humor, Adopted Children, Art, Assassins & Hitmen, Crimes & Criminals, Cybernetics, Fantasy, I don't plan on writting any violence too graphically, Illustrated, Insomnia, Its not too serious though, Kidnapping, LGBTQ Character, Mercenaries, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Organized Crime, Original Character(s), Paranoia, Science Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, That one i am going to tag because Pleoh can get a little neurotic, Urban Fantasy, ask me to tag anything else!, at least sometimes, hired killers, they get out within the second chapter i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2020-11-24 10:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20906318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NSAS_Jian/pseuds/NSAS_Jian, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NSAS_Jian/pseuds/%C5%8Cmukade
Summary: Hello! And welcome to Do No Harm, a science-fiction/fantasy action story about Pleoh's escapades in illegal jobs.Also, please note that all of the art is drawn by me, if you'd like to see more of my work, check out my profile to find the links to my insta/other social medias!





	1. Pink Pajama Pants and Water Bills

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! And welcome to Do No Harm, a science-fiction/fantasy action story about Pleoh's escapades in illegal jobs.
> 
> Also, please note that all of the art is drawn by me, if you'd like to see more of my work, check out my profile to find the links to my insta/other social medias!

Pleoh’s awoken by a thin beam of light that seems to aim directly for their eyes. They’ve always been a light sleeper, and quick to wake up, so it doesn’t take them long to notice that something’s wrong.

This isn’t their house.

They don’t try to look around yet, instead taking the time to let their other senses return to them. Focusing on their surroundings helps them stay calm and not give into their gut instinct of flailing and screaming until something good happens. Generally in situations like these, staying collected is key. Regardless of how much they observe though, nothing changes. The light’s still tinting their eyelids red, they can only hear their own breathing, and their clothes don’t do _ anything _ to dampen the fact that whatever they’re laying on is cold, hard, and uncomfortable. 

The first thing Pleoh notices once they actually open their eyes is that the beam of light is the fault of the door across from them, which is crooked in its frame. Possibly the result of a poor patch job? It's convenient for them, as right now it's providing the only light in the room, illuminating painted grey walls and a pale tiled floor. 

Definitely not their house, then.

Cautiously, they sit up. There’s not a lot to look at, but it seems that they're in a bathroom; unless there are other places people put toilets with sinks. There’s no mirror, but a dark square of unmarred paint on the wall above the sink where it probably used to be.  
  
Aside from that, the room is barren. There’s not even a handle on the door, a realization that makes their palms go sweaty and the back of their neck prickle in anxiety.  
  
_ “Oooh, Pleoh, you really screwed up this time,” _ they whisper to the empty room as they wipe their sweaty palms off on their… silken pink pajama pants? _ “Oh, what the hell is this-” _ they pinch and pull the fabric of the matching shirt and have to bite down a hopeless giggle. They’ve been kidnapped and trapped in a bathroom and someone decided it was appropriate to dress them up in pretty pink pajamas.

If it wasn’t so creepy, it’d be a little more funny.

They take a few deep breaths to get control of themself again, staring at the ceiling as they rub the silk between their fingertips. They can totally handle this; they're a professional assassin and they've been in situations like this before.

One final deep breath in, out, and then they stand up. Or at least they try to.

Pleoh finds that their foot is cuffed to a pipe that juts out from the floor to the sink. Whatever composure they managed to salvage goes out the door as an electric bolt of adrenaline shoots through them and their heart starts pounding in their chest again.

Their first reaction is to wrap their hands around the pipe and try to pull at it, jiggle it a little, _ something. _ But, unsurprisingly, there's no give, and pulling at the chain between the cuffs only strains their ankle.

_ Goddamnit. _

***

Pleoh had been on a job before this, something simple, so they weren’t sure why they hadn’t expected it to go horribly wrong considering how paranoid they usually are. As an assassin, they should be more prepared for things like this.

It had seemed easy enough: follow the client’s directions to the target’s location, kill the target discreetly, do whatever else needed to be done, and then; profit! They've done it before at least two dozen times before now.

Pleoh's memory of what happened after arriving where they were supposed to is a little fuzzy, so they assume that's about the point where things started to go rapidly downhill, and then they ended up in this less-than-stellar water closet for chumps.

Investigating the room further to try and keep panic at bay didn't yield much aside from dustmotes, an old pen, and a bottle cap sporting some logo they don't care to recognize. They couldn't even reach the door from where they're cuffed to the sink; it had been hard enough to stand without getting tangled up in their own legs. The chain barely has a foot of give and it's not the easiest thing to keep the lip of the sink from digging into their back or hip once they get to their feet. Pleoh stays standing anyway. It feels better to shift their weight from foot to foot than to just sit on the tile floor and stare at the ceiling. It helps them feel like they're doing something since they've pretty much exhausted everything within their reach short of using the sink.

On second thought…

They turn both knobs on the sink all the way, the sound of rushing water echoing off the walls of the mostly-empty room. _ ‘Let's see how smug my captors are after seeing this incoming water bill,’ _ they thought, a smug smirk working its way onto their face despite the situation. 

Once they're satisfied with their pettiness, Pleoh goes back to fidgeting in place and counting their steps to keep themself occupied. 

They're almost up to one thousand eight hundred before a shadow passes in front of the door, blocking out the dim light and sending the room into darkness for a moment. Then someone knocks. Funny. Pleoh doesn’t stop moving, they dont answer, and there's a moment where they can't hear anything except for the sound of water rushing out of the faucet. Then a man opens the door. 

Pleoh immediately sizes him up. He has dirty-blonde hair, brown eyes, and looks to be taller than them by a few inches - not surprising, they're a little on the short side - but he doesn't look very intimidating. He's certainly _ trying _ to frighten them though, what with his visible gun and the way he's glaring daggers at them, but they've been on the receiving end of nastier looks and the only reaction he gets is a shark-like grin. 

There’s also faint scars forming neat, methodical stripes over his arms, sectioning them off like they’re being prepared for dissection. A tell-tale sign of under-the-skin cybernetics. Pleoh’s not an expert, but with how little muscle mass he’s sporting, they figure it’s a reinforcement of some sort. ‘Unbreakable’ bones is a popular one. 

Regardless, If he took a few steps closer they could totally take him out. Even with one foot tied to a sink. It was bold of him to leave their hands free. He even walked in with a keycard on a lanyard around his neck. Is it to taunt them, or is it a decoy?

"Why is the sink on?" He's obviously trying to deepen his voice, and for the second time since waking up here, Pleoh has to repress a laugh. What a nerd-lord. It's not smart to underestimate him, but when he’s such a tryhard they really can't help it. If he wanted a deeper voice, he could’ve paid to have that adjusted too, _ this _ is just ridiculous. 

"Why don't you come over here and check it out?" They tilt their head and flutter their lashes at him, clasping their hands in front of themself like some fair Victorian maiden. He looks appropriately perturbed, and doesn't take any steps closer. Smart.

"Turn it off." He demands, and even manages to sound like he has some sort of authority. So they humor him, taking a step back so that they can turn the knobs without breaking eye contact. So much for their petty attempt to ruin his finances by excessive water-usage. 

As soon as the faucet stops running the room is plunged into silence. It leaves Pleoh to the company of the man and the sound of their own heart pounding, adrenaline filling them with a strange sort of electric hunger that makes them fight to stay still. They wish he'd step closer.  
  
Instead he crosses his arms, adjusts his stance and tilts his head up ever-so-slightly. Pleoh decides it makes him look like a tool.

"What can you tell me about The Ministry?" 

“Oh, so _ that’s _ what this is about! _ Phew~ _” They wipe their brow in a purely theatrical manner, grinning at him with all their teeth on display “I can tell you… Nothing!”

It’s not even a lie - Or at least, it’s not a _ big _ lie. The Ministry is the organization that keeps all those nasty underground operations from collapsing in on themselves. Pleoh’s guess is that this guy already knows that though, he probably also knows that if they told him anything more than that they’d be dead meat. Literally. They have a pretty good liver, and that would go for good money out on the market after they were killed. 

So they can’t tell him anything about The Ministry, not unless they want to be in a situation worse than this one.

“..._ ’Nothing’?” _ He echoes with a little disbelieving shake of his head. “Do you think you’re in any position to be lying to me? I have the upper hand here, _ you _ have your right ankle chained to a sink.” They can’t help but snort a little, it only makes him frown harder. “What the hell do you think is funny about this? I have you trapped! I know your face and your name now, _ Pleoh- _”

He cuts himself off with a yelp when the pen they threw hits him square in the nose, and Pleoh feels viciously satisfied as his hands fly up to cover his face. Their weapon of choice rolls leisurely across the floor and back to their bare feet. 

Take that, scumbag.

Their satisfaction quickly fades to apprehension as he uncovers his face to scowl at them. Maybe acting on impulse wasn’t the best thing they could have done, but it’s too late to regret it now. 

Pleoh meets his scowl with a challenging glare of their own, trying to adjust their stance to something a little more balanced in preparation for him to assault them, setting their weight on the balls of their feet and feeling the slight strain of the shackle against their ankle, reminding them of their limited range.

All he does is turn on his heel and slam the door as he leaves. They blink in bewilderment as they listen to the lock mechanism click quietly and their captor's fading footsteps… That was a little more anti-climatic than they’d expected. They’d been hoping that he would come over here and fight them so that they could grab that key-card… but they suppose it’s time for a Plan B. They slowly relax again, shifting so that the shackle is no longer cutting off the circulation in their foot and get to thinking.

***

After a _ considerable _ amount of time passes with no interruptions, Pleoh considers that their little ‘stunt’ had cost them their right to three square meals a day. That is if their captor had planned on feeding them at all. They hadn’t exactly been sated before, but now they’re starting to get honestly hungry, is he trying to starve them out? Get information out of them by bribing them with food later? That might actually be a good plan if he can wait long enough for them to actually starve. They’re pretty sure it takes a month or two before they run the risk of dying.

Regardless, they can only spend so much time shuffling side to side and coming up with eight million escape plans. Especially when they all involve waiting for their captor to open the door again.

They decide to work on the ankle cuff, and carefully sit down to take a better look at the mechanism. It seems to be a standard professional-grade cuff— they’d checked it out earlier— and if they had a paperclip they could get out of this thing no problem. 

They don't have a paperclip… but they do have the pen.

Pleoh spends the better part of what must be at least an hour trying to get the pen to catch the little hook that’s keeping the cuff closed. They try taking it apart and using different pieces of it, they even get innovative at one point and try to unravel the spring so that they can bend it like they would a paperclip. Unfortunately their meddling just sends the spring flying across the room, out of reach. Nice. They _ did _, however, manage to afford themself some wriggle room by pulling the pants leg out from under the metal circlet, so at least they’ve got that going for them.

Pleoh sighs, tugging at their hair until their scalp burns in an attempt to ground themself from the panic rising from their chest. This isn’t looking good, It wasn’t looking good earlier either but now it just looks worse. They take a deep breath before they can get caught up in how awful everything is; They’re still alive, and there’s still probably something they can do, even if it’s just waiting for that guy to come back. Pleoh moved their hand from their hair to the fabric of their pants - they don’t actually want to take their hair out. 

They don’t know how much time they spend just standing there, taking careful, controlled breaths of the stale air so that they don’t collapse to the ground in a sobbing, helpless heap.

At least it helps to pass the time.


	2. Inappropriate Uses of Key-cards

Pleoh’s escape plan ends up being enacted a little later than they’d hoped for, but they’re still ready when they hear footsteps and see the shadow of their captor pass by. Immediately, their heart starts to pound, senses sharpened against the cold air.

_ Now’s their chance. _

They take position as the door unlocks, setting themself on the balls of their feet so that they’re ready to lunge even with the sink right at their back. And once the door is open, the man right in their sights, they launch themself away from the wall.

Their ankle breaks with a sickening  _ crack _ as it rips out of the shackle, the extra resistance makes them faceplant in the man's stomach with a scream as stars burst in their vision and pain lances up their leg and through their body.  _ Fuck. _

Luckily, the impact was still enough to set him off balance, and they’re on the floor  _ outside _ the room when they can open their eyes and see past the white-hot agony of their ankle.

There are people shouting frantically, and a few inches away the man is up on his elbows, trying to get off of the floor. Pleoh’s quick to throw themself at him again. They push him to the ground and scramble to grab the first thing within their reach with both hands, bringing it down as hard as they’re able against his throat.

It’s the keycard. 

While not the most effective weapon on its own, Pleoh has the experience to make it work. It takes less than a pound of force to puncture skin and they quickly find out that his throat isn’t reinforced, as his arms may be. His blood quickly starts to coat their hands as they bring the card down again and  _ again _ , but they want to be  _ sure _ he’s  _ dead— _

Then someone fires a gun. The sound nearly deafens them and drags their attention away from the man underneath them, toward the two people standing, panicked, at the edge of the room. The woman who fired looks spooked, so it’s no surprise that she missed Pleoh by a longshot. As they lock eyes with her, both she and her companion turn tail and run out of the room.

They assume that  _ is _ the appropriate reaction after seeing someone go apeshit on a man with a two-inch keycard, but it’s not particularly convenient. They like to have all their targets in one place. 

Pleoh ignores the man’s gurgling, grabs the gun from his holster and, with a little effort and wobbling on their part, stands up with their weight primarily on their good foot. They stare down at the bloodied man, now scrabbling desperately for purchase on the hardwood floor as if he’s trying to escape his own death.

They really should kill him. He’ll die either way but not in any timely manner if they leave him as is. They fidget with the gun a little, getting a feel for its weight and resting their finger on the trigger.

They could end his suffering, they probably cut through some important things, though not well enough to kill him immediately. What’s the part in the throat that allows air travel to the lungs, the trachea? With how he’s gasping for breath they consider that they might’ve crushed it.

Pleoh watches the blood pool around him, staining his clothes and the floor…

And they walk away. 

They’re slow, and it takes a little more effort than it would usually, but the adrenaline does a good job of numbing the worst of it.

Time to find the other two.

***

Finding his accomplices didn’t take that much effort, though maybe it took more  _ time _ than they’d like. Chasing a couple of idiots through the hallways of a house they didn’t know wasn’t exactly how they liked to spend their Saturday night. (The fact that they weren’t sure if it was Saturday— hadn’t even known it was  _ night _ until they passed by a window— was bothering them to no end.)

The first had tried to pull some heroic stunt. She’d burst out from around a corner, told her companion to run, and by the time she’d begun to aim they’d already shot her in the thigh. Her hap-hazard bullet grazed their shoulder but they grit their teeth and moved through it, firing another shot off at her head, sending her falling backward with a spray of blood and brain matter. Gross.

They had to stop after that, leaning against the wall and squeezing their shoulder, eyes clenched shut against waves of pain, cursing to themself as if it would help ease the injury. It wouldn’t, they knew that much, but they didn’t have a lot of time until the second guy stopped panicking and called for backup or got some sort of plan together. So they grit their teeth, stood up as straight as they could, and kept going down the hallway.

He’d hidden in a bathroom; They had heard his panicked breathing echoing off the walls when they passed. Once they’d entered and pulled back the shower curtain he’d fallen to his knees, hands clasped as if he were praying to them. Not willing to be guilt-tripped into sparing his life, they didn’t even let him get past the first  _ ‘please-’. _

At least it would be easy to clean the walls of the shower, but they don’t bother reaching up to turn the knob to wash the splattered blood and brain matter away. Instead, they crouch down by his slumped body and pull his switchblade from where it was clipped to the inside of his pocket.

They tear off the cleanest part of his shirt— using the knife for help since their shoulder is  _ burning _ and they can only do so much with one hand— then wrap the scrap of cloth around their injured shoulder. It’s not a permanent solution in the slightest but it does make them feel a tiny bit better about having an open wound. 

After making sure they aren’t bleeding anywhere else, they place a hand on the wall for support and grimace in anticipation as they carefully make their way into a standing position. The first step out hurts, but they don’t have many other options here; They could push through it or they could sit on the floor and wait until the police (or worse, the IBMC) arrive, summoned by unsilenced gun-shots.

Thankfully, they find the box holding their stuff just outside the room they’d been held in, a lucky guess really but one they were ready to take full advantage of. Their captor was dead now, his blood pooled around him, skin already pale and taking on a bit of a blue tint. His eyes are closed, expression set into a tired grimace. They take a moment to look him over, and think about what a mess they made here. It’s going to be hell for the CCs to clean up and sanitize, maybe they’ll send the crew some apology donuts or something.

All their gear is in the box, even the stuff Pleoh assumed would be pawned off. Maybe the guys that kidnapped them just didn’t have enough time to list it on some blackmarket site—  _ “Assassin’s boots, ‘hundred dollars each.” _ — Their twelve knives could go for a good price too, even individually.

Their throw-away phone is also in the box, and they're glad to see that it's been wiped. Too many attempts made to unlock it. Luckily, Pleoh's memorized the number they need to call, but their first priority is to check the date.

…

It's Monday. It's 9:30 pm on a Monday - they'd been here for a day at least. After taking a second to figure it out, they realize it's been about 29 hours. 

_ Twenty-nine hours.  _

They have a kid at home— he's in high school and he's used to being left alone but they still have a  _ kid _ at home— They have pets, animals they need to take care of, things they need to do— They also haven’t eaten since they were kidnapped and that  _ can’t _ be good with a metabolism like theirs— 

They get stuck for a moment thinking about all that missed time. It might not seem like a lot to anybody else, but Pleoh lives in a perpetual state of  _ 'this next moment may be my last' _ and 29 hours is a lot of wasted time spent trapped in an empty room doing jack shit.

They should hurry up then, they don’t need to waste any more time getting out of here. After a deep breath and a heavy sigh, Pleoh gathers their things into their arms as efficiently as they can. There's no point in putting their gear on, once they get to Caster’s they'll just have to take it off again anyways. They have to admit, for a blackmarket doctor he’s actually pretty good at his job. They almost like the guy.

Standing up makes them groan in pain, but they can’t let their foot slow them down now. The faster they get out of here the faster they can get a cast and sit down somewhere safe.

Finding the front door proves to be a bit of a hassle, but they get there eventually, and with a tug on the handle they're greeted by fresh air for the first time in about a day.

It's nice.

They take a second to appreciate it as they carefully lean against the doorframe, grabbing the phone from their armful of stuff once they're sure that they're not about to fall over from exhaustion or pain, either would do it.

They make a call. They know the number by heart, and it only rings twice before they’re greeted by a wary, "...Hello?"

"Hey, Leo!" They smile at the air in front of them, proud that their voice doesn't shake but they do sound a little hoarse. Will he notice? If he did, would he care? (and why are they thinking about this  _ now? _ Why does it matter?) "How're ya doin?"

"... Good..." he sounds a little suspicious. Or at least, they think he does. It's always hard to tell with him, even though they've been working together for well over a year now. 

"Sweeeeet…" For a moment, they don't say anything, just close their eyes. Their heart isn't pounding as hard anymore and as the adrenaline fades away they can feel exhaustion settling in their limbs.

"Pleoh?" Their eyes snap open at the sound of his voice and they’re quick to grab ahold of the conversation again.

“Whatcha up to?” they ask, but continue before he can speak “As in: Are you busy? Like right now? Are you even home? I’m gonna be honest here,  _ Cudr’k _ , I’ve kinda been under a rock for uhhhh… pshhh… the last few days, let's say. I’m a little out of date. A bit behind-the-times, if you will,”

“W-what do you need?” Right to the point, per usual.

“A ride, and probably a cleanup here at some point if I’m being honest.”

“Where are you?”

One thing that they like about Leonardo is that he’s learned to stop asking ‘why’. He’ll probably try and ask later, sure, especially when this hits the news, but right now he’s willing to let the reasoning slide right by and if they were a better person they might thank him for that. It always takes them a while to be ready to talk about this stuff, it might get better the more often they get kidnapped. It’s not a thing they’d like to think about though.

It takes them a moment or two to prattle off the address (they weren’t entirely sure of where they were either. Kidnapped, remember?) and after giving them an estimated time of arrival he hangs up. Leaving Pleoh to wait for the next five minutes by themself, sitting on the porch of some strangers house.


	3. Drive-in-Noodles and Borrowed Jackets

When Leo finally pulls up and gets out of the car, all he does is raise a perfectly-arched eyebrow at them. He’s seen them with their mask off before, and he’s seen them wearing normal civilian clothing, but right now all they’re wearing is a pair of ill-fitting bloodstained pink pajamas that don’t belong to them and a red-but-used-to-be-orange shirt wrapped around the brand new hole in their shoulder. They’re also carrying all their gear instead of wearing it as they would normally, which probably looks a little weird but they don’t owe him any answers.

“Hey!” They give him their best smile. The one for when they’re tired and in pain but don't want to let people know that “Took you long enough, blockhead! I’m sitting here  _ dying _ on some bumass’s porch steps and you’re going to grab fast food or some shit.” He doesn’t even roll his eyes at them, which sets off a quiet alarm in their head, but they ignore it “You’re going to have to pick me up and carry me off into the sunset. I don’t feel like walking today and you parked  _ so far away _ .”

Carrying them wouldn’t be difficult for him, not only because he’s done it before, but because he’s carried things  _ much heavier _ than them. Leonardo’s a big man, not exactly in height, but more in...  _ stature _ . He’s built like a brick shithouse. With the scar crossing one eyebrow and his natural glare he fits pretty solidly in the ‘strong and silent’ archetype. Though, maybe he should cut his hair, in Pleoh’s opinion the little-old-lady bun lowers his intimidation factor just a bit. That and his stuttering, but he can’t do anything to help that so they aren’t about to pick on it.

He quietly steps closer to them and crouches down. They brace to be picked up, but all he does is lift the cuff of their pants leg a bit, getting a better look at their bad foot. They know it’s swollen, bruised, and bent at an awkward angle, because they’d looked while they were waiting, but that had been all they’d cared to see. Broken bones were gross.

“Damn. Nosy much? You can’t just lift a lady’s skirts—”

"...What happened?"

Pleoh chokes on their own words for a moment and he looks up at them, eyebrows raised. They hadn’t expected him to ask yet, and they don’t have anything believable to tell him “...You invade everyone’s privacy like that?” Their mouth suddenly seems dry, so they lick their lips and offer him an admittedly weak smirk. 

They can’t tell what he’s thinking, his poker face will be the  _ death _ of them. They try to decipher some sort of emotion from his movement as he lets go of their pants leg and stands up, looking down at them. They’re not very successful, and they blame it on the injuries.

“...P-pass me your things,” They try not to make their relief too obvious, and lean over to grab all their gear, which they’d set to the side after calling him, and he takes it with a quiet sigh “Sit tight.”

“Right, like I can do anything else,” This time he  _ does _ roll his eyes as he turns away from them and back to his car. Pleoh watches as he puts all their stuff in the back, hidden under a dark blanket, and after getting that settled he comes back for them.

As they predicted, it’s no big deal for him to pick them up, and they’re grateful to note that he’s careful of their injuries as he does so, trying not to jostle them as he gets them up from the stairs, or when they go through the awkward maneuvers of getting themself settled in the seat.

“Caster’s?” He asks once he’s settled in his own seat and started the car, and they nod. The truth of the situation is starting to sink in a little now that they’re somewhat safe and they’re more focused on keeping their cool than coming up with some snarky remark. They see the worried glance he gives them, but thankfully he doesn’t comment, and pulls off down the empty street.

***

A mere three minutes into the ride they pass a McNoodles and Pleoh is suddenly and painfully reminded that they haven’t eaten in more than a day.

“Hey, can we stop for food?”

Out of the corner of their eye, they see Leo pull a double-take at them.

“What the hell - No?”

“C’mon just like - Just real quick, yeah? I’m starving over here - I’m practically wasting away, suffering - look, I got shot, my foot’s broken and I got all this crusty blood on me.”

“Which is exactly why we c-can’t just walk into a restaurant.” he hisses, and they reach over to put a hand on his arm, turning to face him now for the full effect.

“Legit- Leo, I’ll get down and beg. I’m stupid hungry. I’ll even accept shitty car snacks at this rate.”

It takes a little finagling on their part, but the compromise ends up being that they go through the drive-thru. He covers them with an old jacket from the backseat and they pretend like they’re sleeping while he orders. 

They also get a car-snack and it’s not as shitty as they feared.

What does kind of suck is that they realize they haven’t been hugged in 29 hours. Leo’s jacket is warm, and it smells like him, but it isn’t… the same. They haven’t ever been hugged by Leo but their point is that the jacket isn’t a good substitute for  _ any _ kind of hug.

Their other point is that they don’t think Leo will hug them if they ask.

Maybe they can get a hug from Finn when they get home.

  
  
  


The trip to Caster's apartment hadn't taken long, thankfully. Pleoh wasn't sure how long they were willing to stay awake without the noodles to keep them occupied, they’d finished the entire bowl only about five minutes after Leo handed it to them and having a more-or-less full stomach was making their exhaustion all the more noticeable. Leo had to nudge them awake from a doze once he’d parked.

They kept the jacket draped over themself as he picked them up again, carrying them through the complex. It hid the majority of the blood spattered across the pajamas, but it’s not like very many people were out at this hour anyway, the elevator didn’t even stop on its way up to Caster’s floor.

“You’ll have to call Kitty.” They mumble as they watch the number slowly tick higher on the elevator’s display. 

“Already messaged her,” Leo shrugs with one shoulder, jostling their legs a little, but it doesn’t bother them enough to comment at this point. “She’ll send in a request for the cleaning crews before you get home.”

“It’s nice to know that creep can do something without trying to eat me,” They catch Leo rolling his eyes and quickly continue, “I’m serious! She’s crazier than I am, it’s a wonder no one else has tried to kill her yet - I mean, successfully.” He doesn’t bother to comment, and just sighs as the elevator slows to a stop.

They must doze off again in the hallway between the elevator and Caster’s apartment, because the next thing they know someone’s cold fingers are resting against their wrist, taking their pulse.

“I’m not dead yet.” They grumble, and open one eye to glare at Frigid-Fingers McGee.

“Such a shame,” Caster sighs and shakes his head gently, looking down at Leo with his eyebrows raised in a mockery of a sympathetic expression. “You got here too late, I can’t find a pulse.”

“I’ll shove my pulse up your  _ ass _ , stickman”

“You should cremate them, it’s what they would’ve wanted,” Caster ushers Leo by placing a hand on his shoulder, “Put them down in the usual room, I already have a table prepped.” He follows Leo as he carries them down the hallway, and they can’t help but think about how ridiculously tall Caster is— at least for a human— he must be over 6 foot, he’s head and shoulders over Leo’s height. His gangly build does nothing to make him appear any shorter either- he’s all elbows, knees, bright amber eyes and dark curly hair. 

The ‘usual room’ is at the end of the hallway just left of the door, where Caster keeps the medical supplies. The fluorescent light bulbs he’s had installed hurts their eyes and the cold of the examination table shocks them through the flimsy pink pajamas when Leonardo sets them down.

“ _ Christ _ , can’t you pay for a heater?” They hiss, and grit their teeth against the urge to hop right off of the table. At least it woke them up.

“You always  _ conveniently _ forget to pay me, so no, I can’t,” He pulls on a latex glove that he procured from seemingly nowhere and it snaps against his wrist “You gonna stay in here for this, Leo?” The man in question nods, and Caster gestures over to the sink “Then wash your hands— up to the forearm— you get to be my nurse.”

Leonardo sighs heavily, but does as directed while Caster pulls on his other glove and approaches Pleoh, grabbing the jacket and chucking it to the floor with little ceremony.

“Why the hell are you in your pajamas?” He asks, obviously confused, but doesn’t pause in his work, grabbing scissors from a tray set off to the side so that he can start to cut through the fabric covering the wound in their shoulder “I thought Leo said that you were on a mission?”

“I was, they’re not mine,” Pleoh flashes him a grin and Caster shares a quick look with Leonardo, who shrugs as he makes his way over.

“Why are you wearing someone else’s pajamas while on a mission?” Caster actually sounds, and looks, a little apprehensive toward their answer, like he’s afraid of what they might say. Meanwhile, some of the tension on their shoulder eases when he cuts though the red-used-to-be-orange shirt, and they’re happy to note that they don’t feel the warmth of fresh blood.

“I’ve decided that’s none of your business,” They inform him, and promptly hiss out a stream of curses as Caster pinches the stained fabric of the pajamas and it pulls at some of the dried blood trying to scab over their wound “ _ Fuck, _ man—”

“Sorry,” 

“You’re  _ not. _ ”

He shrugs loosely with one shoulder instead of responding “Anyway— I kind of need to know what happened so that I can properly take care of this,” He’s more careful when he cuts through the silk sleeve, but just as efficient.

“That’s still none of your business, beanpole.”

“It  _ kind of  _ is— Leo pull this off and toss it in the trash,” There’s the sound of fabric ripping right by their ear and they see Leo moving out of the corner of their eye. Great, now their arm is cold “I have to know what happened so that  _ I can do my job properly _ , which is what you’re paying me for.”

“I thought we didn’t pay you.” They flash a smirk at his back as he turns to lean over the counter for a moment. He comes back with a needle delicately held between his fingers.


	4. Way Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ergh. The first portion of this is sloppy, I never actually wrote it but I needed a segway into the later parts.

It’s not as bad as it could’ve been. It hurts- of course it does- but nothing they haven’t sat through before. When he’s done, Caster is even enough of a gentleman to help them get a spare set of clothes on.   
  
“You’re pulling my arm, Frenchman.”   
  
“You don’t know that, you can’t even  _ feel _ your arm.” Caster grumbles, delicately pulling at the hem and sleeve of the shirt so that Pleoh doesn’t have to move their shoulder much to get the shirt on properly.   
  
He’s not wrong, their arm is only just starting to feel the unpleasant cold/sharp prickling of the anesthetic wearing off. But it’s complain about their arm or think about Finn being left alone at home while they were fucking around in someone’s bathroom. 

So they keep grousing at him, while also trying to get their clothes on as fast as possible, and eventually their arm graduates from  _ ‘uncomfortable and cold’ _ to  _ ‘oh fuck, ow?’ _ . When Caster sees them wincing while they try to gather their shit together, he abruptly straightens and leaves the room, giving Leo (who’s been looming in the corner this whole time, quietly, trying to merge with the decor or something probably) explicit instructions to keep them from doing anything stupid.

“Stupid,” Pleoh murmurs to themself, gathering up the bloodied pajamas from the floor with a severe grimace. “It’s like he doesn’t even know me.” Leonardo grunts in acknowledgement, or more likely agreement, and he’s abruptly close enough to take the bundle of clothes from Pleoh’s arm and gently grab their good arm, helping them to their feet (foot, they shouldn’t be putting weight on the other one) and nudging them to lean against the examination table.

“You should lie down,” He says, nudging them again once he’s gotten them to sit down on the cold metal. Pleoh doesn’t lay down though- they know him, and they know when he says ‘lie down’ he means ‘go take a fucking nap’ and that’s  _ absolutely _ not going to happen right now. Instead, they smirk and tilt their head at him, raising their eyebrows incredulously.   
  
“Like fuck I’m about to do that,” They say. They’d aimed for a lighter tone, but their voice comes out a little harsher and a little more stern than they meant it to. They look away from him, at the empty doorway and the hall beyond it, then back at Leo with the best smile they can muster. “I’ve never rested a day in my life, Rapunzel. You know that.”

He doesn’t look convinced, and just blinks at them, eyebrows slightly drawn together. “... Never too late to start.”

They snort, and he walks the few steps to the trashcan and dumps the ruined clothes in it, turning back to him and crossing his arms, gaze expectant. Helplessly, their smile widens, encouraged by their sudden spike of anxiety. This suddenly feels like an argument- and it  _ shouldn’t _ , because they haven’t even gotten to the shouting and violent hand-waving.

“Leo,” They say, raising their eyebrows further and tilting their head the other way. “I have to get home.” Maybe he’ll get the hint if they stop fooling around with him. This seems to have the opposite effect, because his perpetual frown deepens and his brows draw further together. He looks disappointed, and it makes them bristle in their skin.

“Rest, first,” Like he genuinely thinks it’s that simple (which he might, it’s not like they talk about Finn… ever. Maybe that would be important for him to know. Maybe they should tell him.)

(Not right now)

“No.” Pleoh doesn’t have anything else to add, and their tone still isn’t bowing to their will to seem flippant-as-usual. They sound flat to their own ears, and they can only imagine what Leo must hear. Whatever it is makes him stand up straighter, outright glaring at them now.

“Pleoh,” He starts. He’s using that tone, the tone that people use to chastise children when they’re being stupid, or when they’ve been caught lying. 

“Leonardo.” They abruptly drop their smile and meet his eyes, gripping the edge of the examination table hard enough that their fingers of their good hand go numb this time. They can hear the seconds ticking away on his wristwatch and they count with the beat.

_ One _ .

_ Two _ .

_ Three _ .

It feels like an argument, but it’s not like one  _ they’ve _ ever had before. It can’t just be a Leo thing either, a quirk of the way he fights, because they’ve had arguments with him before and they’ve never been like this. Silent, and tense, and without any words.

A full minute passes before Leonardo is the first to look away, his gaze dropping to their hands, and they quickly let go. They clasp their hands together instead, rubbing the impressions of the table out of their skin before pushing themself off the table. They make sure to hit the ground with their good foot.

“I’ll call a cab home,” They smile at him again, a shit attempt at an olive branch, but they still don’t know how to deal with whatever that moment was. “You can go back to cooking or whatever it is you do when I’m not around to be the light of your life.” They wink and grab the crutches that Caster had set up to lean against the table, then start on their way out.

They run into Caster on their way to the door, and he raises his eyebrows, a glass of water in one hand, painkillers in the other “Leaving already?” they barely open their mouth before Leo pipes up from behind them.

“Y-you forgot your stuff.” 

“I did!” They gasped a little and turn to flash him a smile over their shoulder. He’s carrying the bag Caster had given them for their things. “Forgot the painkillers too. Damn - I’m a mess. Guess I’m actually going to get some sleep when I get home.” 

Caster mumbles something in response to that but they don’t pay attention. They just flip him off, pointedly don’t look at Leo to see what he thought about their statement, and accept the painkillers and water when he hands them over kicking him in the shin with their good foot when he ruffles their hair.

Leo helps them get the bookbag on without falling over, and they pat him on the arm before they set off again.

And again, they’re stopped by the baby tree in a lab coat.

“Wait- Hold on- Leo’s not driving you?”

“Nope!” They call over their shoulder because, for once, they just want to stop talking and go the hell home “I’m calling a cab.”

“That's? Really inefficient? he’s already here-”

“Don’t care!” they sing, pulling the door open all by themself before someone can try to help them - or stop them “I can’t hear you over the sound of me calling a cab! The driver’s voice is beautiful this time of year!” Before they close the door they hear Caster’s protest of  _ “What the hell does that even mean?” _ and Leo whispering something that sounds suspiciously like  _ ‘-don't think they want to talk about it’ _ and then they’re again left waiting on someone else’s doorstep.

Calling a cab is easy at least. Better yet, no one tries to talk to them again…

They would actually like some company. If they knew that Caster wouldn’t try to probe them for details they might ask him to sit out here with them. 


End file.
